


Blue Whale

by Neurtsy



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Art, French Louis, Getting Together, Language Barrier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-15
Updated: 2015-06-15
Packaged: 2018-04-04 12:43:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4138020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neurtsy/pseuds/Neurtsy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Falling in love fills the spaces words can't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blue Whale

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Shiptoendallships](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shiptoendallships/gifts).



> I love when prompts include 'run wild with it.'  
> I'm sorry it isn't over 10k, but I offered to pinch-hit and I was kind of strapped for time to make the deadline.
> 
> https://www.tumblr.com/blog/neurtsy

Harry’s phone is whining for attention before he’s even fully awake, blinking around an eyeful of fist as he tries to mentally urge his coffee maker to work faster. 

His voice is sticky with sleep when he answers, and through his newly-woken daze he finds himself agreeing to come in early to help the campus organizers with cleanup. 

 

 _“We have your name and number on our list of volunteers,”_ the voice on the phone had chirped, sounding high-strung, and strung out across the line. _“We need a few extra hands to get the art rooms back in shape.”_

 

Signing the volunteer sheet when the semester started earlier in the week had seemed like a good idea - extra credit he didn’t really need, but something to fill out the gaps in his resumé.

He skips his morning run, skims through a relaxation magazine that came in the _‘welcome to first term’_ packet for his phycology course. Probably a joke, but the sharp itch at the back of his eyes protesting the early hour tells him he might need it, and he tries to absorb in as many soothing thoughts as he can as he scalds his tongue on his coffee.

The result is sporadic images of lavender and melted honey, the bombardment of everything he’s tried to cram in all at once, and entirely unhelpful.

He drains his mug and wrestles his way into his clothes, and then he’s out the door a moment later, down the street, flashing his student badge at the driver and claiming a window seat on the nearest bus.

 

The campus is alive with students, churning and crowding like ants along pavement cracks. 

Harry squeezes himself through alongside them, _citrus peels, cherry blossoms, lilac sprigs_ narrating his path.

 

He announces his presence in the art room, his salute sagged from sleepiness, his _‘reporting for duty,’_ sounding deflated. 

He’s assigned the task of clearing out the old supplies from the cupboards, cleaning out the used brushes and jars, and organizing the rest. 

 

He condemns himself to a morning of work by saying out loud that he doesn’t have a class until the afternoon. 

He opens the first cupboard door and barely suppresses a groan at the sight of clutter. 

Paint brushes stained terrible colours have tacked together in their containers, and rings of paint and paste have stained the bottoms. Stacks of paper have rotted, ruined together, sulking and lightless, and everything seems to be covered with a dusting film of crushed and powdered pastel. 

 

He takes pictures before he delves in. He has to.

 

 

The bucket Harry’s holding is plastic, and molded from the flimsiest kind of rubber. The dirty paintbrushes inside are all bunched and stuck together, and threatening to spill out with each step he takes, hands spread as wide as he can get them, struggling to keep the sides of the plastic from caving in. It’s inexplicably heavy too, and he tries to guess at how many brushes it holds as he walks.

 

The halls are milling with first year students who haven’t yet learned how to navigate the routes, or walk on the right side, Harry’s noting with annoyance. He edges by a group of bewildered looking freshman crowded around a campus map, and finally finds sanctuary as he ducks into the classroom and maneuvers the door shut behind him with his shoulder. 

 

Relief is palpable and tastes of _sweet tea, honeydew, ocean mist_ as he drops the bucket to the edge of the sink. The shout of the rim against the countertop draws the attention of the two figures at the back of the room, and Harry lifts a hand to wave, and swipe at his brow in the process. 

 

“Harry, how are you?” A voice says briskly, irish and tense, friendly enough but clearly rushed. Harry’s beginning to wonder if there’s anyone on campus that isn’t feeling rushed today, and he turns the tap on before answering.

“I’m good, Niall. Bit busy,” he says, drawing the first handful of brushes out and running them under the water. It immediately turns a murky grey.

“I know the feeling,” Niall says dryly. “Mind if I rant?” There’s a clip to his voice that Harry isn’t used to, and he can feel the same narrowed pressure in his own temples.

 

“By all means,” Harry replies, watching his hands as he fingers apart the bristles. They’re hardened and tacky, and there’s something strangely satisfying to softening them until the water runs clearer. 

“Appreciate it,” Niall says, and takes a breath. “Already got a list a mile long of kids trying to switch out of classes. The foreign committee manager has fucked off to god knows where with paperwork and some talk of a staff meeting, which leaves me running around with a bunch of kids who don’t speak English, trying to get them sorted, and _nobody_ seems to know where _anything_ is.” There’s a beat of silence, and Harry drops the handful of clean brushes to the countertop. 

“I don’t know where the rest of the organizers are,” Niall finishes with a sigh. “The first week is always bullshit.” 

“Your accent gets so much thicker when you’re stressed out, you know?” Harry offers with a smile, turning back to run the next handful of near-ruined brushes under the tap. The colours running off are greys and dark greens, _pine needles, still waters…_

“Which doesn’t help the case that I’ve been trying to explain maps and course outlines to French and Spanish students all bleedin’ morning,” Niall mutters huffily. There’s a quiet murmur from the back, and Harry twists his neck, finally noticing the boy standing with Niall, chewing on his lip as he watches their exchange.

The morning has been lugging on, weighted down with tasks, and Harry’s eyes are off. Slower, and not noticing the things he’s used to noticing.

“Oh, sorry, Niall, who’s your friend?” Harry asks, dropping the brushes into the sink to turn around fully. 

“Right, Harry, this is Louis - ” 

“Hi, Louis, nice to meet you,” Harry says, and Niall rattles off some introduction in French that Harry catches most of. The new student’s eyes dart over towards him, and he’s met with a small smile and a soft _‘salut,’_ that leaves him with a gentle thought of _mint leaves, sun showers…_

“You two’ll get on fine, he does art too,” Niall says, then says what Harry can only assume is a translated version to the french student. “I’ve got to go see if they have the new schedules printed yet. I left a flock of first years waiting in the main foyer.” With this, Niall turns on his heels and flees the room, and Louis looks only mildly distressed to see him go.

 

There’s a beat, in which Harry isn’t sure if he’s meant to strike up a conversation or leave Louis to his work - from his distance the desktop looks like a ruin of shattered cathedral windows. He catches Louis’ eye, and there’s a smile too, politely expectant, so Harry takes a shot.

 

“Are you enjoying the school here?” Harry asks as he runs the brushes under the tap. He twists back around in time to see a confused look pulling Louis’ lips together.

“Désolé,” he says softly, and pairs it with a mild shrug.

“Oh, you don’t...? Sorry, okay...um,” Harry flicks the water off his fingers, and crosses his arms. “Tu...aime l’ecole...ici?” He winces at the choppy feel of the words against his tongue. 

“Oui,” Louis answers, after wrinkling his nose at Harry’s accent. “C’est tres agréable. Qu’est-ce que vous étudiez?” It’s Harry’s turn to pull a face of confusion, and they both laugh, sheepish as they realize their dilemma. 

 

It’s solved by Harry plugging his beat up last generation iPod into the art room’s equally beat up dock. He flips through genres, settling on an ambience playlist, and a backwards glance shows Louis giving him an approving thumbs up. The speakers are grainy, but the music helps to ease what could have turned into an awkward atmosphere. 

Harry doesn’t have time for awkward amid the _deep breaths_ and _sun salutations_ running like live wires through his fingers.

 

When Harry returns to the room, his shoulders are a little tighter, irritation terse and brewing in his bones. 

The French student is still at the back table, Harry notes, and the music filtered out has changed into something new, something lighthearted. 

Louis’ swaying to the beat, rocking lightly on his heels as his fingers seem to dance over the tabletop. He looks up when Harry crosses in, eyes wide and smile stretching to match as he stops, body freezing, saying _I’m caught!_ in the stillness. 

 

It’s cute, Harry thinks, feeling half asleep, feet and fingers drones as he holds more brushes beneath the running tap. Contagious too, and he finds his own shoulders sliding to the beat as he works. 

 

There’s a shock of silent air when Harry finally unplugs his iPod, shouldering his bag and smiling an apology to Louis, who’s watching him leave from the back of the room. Harry waves, and Louis smiles. The electric hum in Harry’s head seems to have subsided.

 

Harry brushes off the interaction, leaves the soft smile behind in the room when he leaves for his afternoon class. 

 

Later, on the bus ride home, he realizes he’s stopped conjuring up calming thoughts in an anxious, manic way. He can’t pinpoint the moment it happened. 

 

 

It’s almost a week later when Harry sees Louis again. Harry’s classes have fallen into some semblance of a pattern, and his volunteering eases into something less frenzied, more organized. 

Louis is in the same place at the back of the art room, and Harry can see it’s been sectioned off separately from the other tables; his own little workspace. 

Harry’s head feels more securely screwed on this time, and his eyes feel less glazed over. They catch on the delicate curve of Louis’ wrists as he adjusts glimmering copper foil to the edges of a piece of pale blue glass in his hands. 

Louis looks up, seeing him standing there and Harry is met with a new shade of blue, lined with lashes instead of foil, but just as bright, and just as sharp. 

 

“Hello,” Louis greets. “Harry,” he adds. It’s formal, and dripping with accent. Harry likes the shape of it. 

“Salut,” he says. “Louis,” he copies with a grin, wondering if the sound of it sounds just as foreign. 

“Ca va?” Louis asks, returning the smile before dropping his eyes back to his table. 

“Good - bien,” Harry answers. A wooden tray of ink bottles is sitting on the sink counter where he left it earlier, and the shine and colour of them beckons for his camera. Harry has unthinkably left it back in his room. Of course, the world seems a little clearer, brighter, more dazzling on the days without it. 

“Et toi?” Harry asks after a beat. 

“Moi aussi. J’ai été occupé,” Louis replies. It’s high and smooth and Harry doesn’t understand. 

“I don’t - je ne sais...” It’s a fumble, and Harry doesn’t miss the frown on Louis’ face. Harry shrugs it off. Points to the table covered it bits of copper and glass.

“What are you making?” He hopes the gesture is clear enough, and Louis nods slightly, looking at the tabletop and biting his lip. When he looks up again, it’s with a helpless shrug, and Harry laughs, encouraged and stepping towards the back.

Closer, he can see the sheer collection of glass shards spreading out across the surface. A multitude of colours, all littering together and swirling together and lying there, together.

 

"You sure have a lot of pieces going on…" Harry comments, mostly a mumble of observation to himself, and when Louis hums a questioning sound to him, he does his best to simplify and translate. 

"Beaucoup colours," is what comes out, and Louis laughs, wind chimes dancing out a small melody. It's a nice but still surprising reaction, and Harry inches a hand to the table, fingers coming forward to run over the collection of glass.

Louis makes a frustrated little noise, and his hands come flying up to bat Harry's away. Harry falters when he does, and watches the terse line of Louis' mouth ease back into something more relaxed. 

_"Non,"_ Louis says quietly, tapping his forefinger to the edge of Harry's wrist. It's light and scolding, and Harry holds his breath. _"Viens ici,"_ Louis adds, and Harry complies, walking over to stand beside him. 

 

It's easier to see at this angle, how the colours are grouped together, spread out across the tabletop. Pinks and oranges scattered together across the top, darker and darker shades as they mingle. And from here Harry can pick out the shapes, seeing how the thin shards are neatly arranged, lined up against the grain.

 

"Ne pas toucher," Louis says, soft and chiding, eyes flicking to Harry's scanning his face for understanding. _"Pointu,"_ he adds, holding up a jagged-edged piece, tapping the tip of his finger to the sharp point. Harry smiles, makes a show of clasping his hands together behind his back, and Louis seems satisfied.

 

They both seem at a loss of what to do next, or try to say, so Harry extracts himself from the table, puts his music on again, and they fall into their separate work, Louis blending shades of glass together, wrapping jagged edges in copper as Harry washes the last specks of dried ink from small glass jars.

 

It’s methodical, as piano and folk-blues narrate their silence. 

 

The songs blend together, and Harry turns as there’s a soft chiming voice from behind him. Louis, still arranging pieces, and as he looks up to see Harry’s questioning expression, he repeats.

“Je l’aime cette chanson,” he says, pointing a finger to the old speakers, playing soft music. _“I like,”_ he confirms, eyes reading Harry’s face for comprehension. 

“Oh, yeah, they’re good,” Harry says, blinking. He likes, too, enough for the songs to have washed any quick responses from his mind. He can’t think of a way to explain how he gets lost in music, so instead, he dries his hands on the legs of his jeans, tears a sheet of paper from a notebook in his bag. 

He scribbles down the artist and album name, making sure it’s legible, before crossing to the back and handing it to Louis, who takes it unsurely. Harry points to the speakers, then back at the page, and Louis’ eyes shift, and alight, lips turning up in a pleased smile. 

“Merci,” he says, and his voice is soft as guitar strings. 

“You’re welcome,” Harry replies, and the rush of things seems to have been erased, falling back to something simple. As he extracts himself, and winds his way back into his day, he wonders if Louis’ feeling the same hushed peals of music the same way he is. 

 

 

It’s the next day when Harry sees him again, in the hall outside the art room, and there’s a headache wrapping around his skull like a jealous lover. 

 

Harry’s a step ahead, so he pulls the door open as he passes, turning to let Louis by, but he doesn’t walk in. Instead, Louis pauses, standing hesitantly in front of him, lips parting then brow furrowing, a silent search for words. It’s a familiar look that Harry knows. Knows well form wearing it lately. 

Louis shifts his bag from one shoulder to another - a stalling motion - and from inside it there’s a high, tinkling song of foil-wrapped shards against one another. The noise seems to startle the frustration from Louis’ face, and he blinks, ducks his head with a soft _merci._

 

It’s a moment, Harry swears he’s sure of it, but as moments are wont to do it passes, and he’s left clearing his throat, propping the door open with his foot and gesturing awkwardly for Louis to cross through into the room.

He lets the door swing slowly shut once Louis’ inside, and Harry is left facing the blank wood panelling, eyes alive with glass-sharp shades of blues and greens.

 

He finds his next class. He also finds it drags. 

 

 

It’s early morning when Harry wakes, and finds his pace on the winding path between the trees just behind the main campus grounds. It’s still green, morning sunlight still sending licks of warmth down through the early mist. 

It’s easy to get lost in it while he runs, and shakes the thoughts and dreams that hang like cobwebs in his head. 

By the end of the trail he feels green too, bright and youthful, his heart and lungs like hammers in his chest. It’s a wordless feeling, and he keeps it inside, holds it beneath his skin, lets it stir and live, and it itches his fingers towards his camera, pulling out pieces of the sky and soil. The shapes of clouds, the pattern of stones. Simple things. 

 

It’s during a late afternoon class that he picks up on it. Amid the quiet rustle of ink to paper, and fingers to computer keys, it slowly dawns on him just how full the room is. How clustered the bodies are in the seats beside and around him, and more pointedly, the way his eyes haven’t been straying. 

He finds a breath between lectures, and twists his neck for a quiet look around. Bodies, faces, hands, just as simply as have always been, and the only part that stands out in Harry’s mind is how a faint comparison has etched itself behind his eyes. 

 

Something else he can’t quite pinpoint the origin of. 

 

 

The next time he sees Louis, it’s in the art room and Harry’s carrying a box filled with paint-stained colour palettes. The paint is already chipped and smearing off on his hands.

 

Harry comes in with the pretense of working, but his eyes are distracted by the flicker of movement at the back.

 

He’s drawn like a crow to the bits of coloured glass catching the rays of early afternoon sun coming in from the window. 

 

There’s a crease of Louis’ brow as he works, a faint downward tug of muscles in concentration, and it could be the lighting, but Harry’s eyes pick out a pale dusting, salmon coloured and shimmering across his eyelids.

 

His fingers move deftly, with a dainty sort of sureness, turning and tweaking pieces, before disappearing back into his pocket to pull out a tube of lip balm.

Harry stands entranced, watching as Louis rubs his lips together, eyes never leaving the littering of glass across the table. It still looks like catalogued chaos to Harry, but there’s something hypnotic in the way Louis selects and twists the pieces.

 

Harry can’t say how long he stands watching, leaning against the counter while his palettes soak and drown in the sink.

Something seems to pass over Louis’ face, a realization, or a faded slip out of the trance he’s put himself in, and he looks up, slowly startled.

 _“Oh,”_ he says simply, noting Harry’s presence at the side of the room.

“Bonjour,” Harry greets. His accent is thick and clumsy, but Louis writes it off with a smile. 

Louis speaks, something fluid and lyrical that Harry dimly recognizes as a greeting, a poetic sort of _how are you?_ and he finds himself shrugging, trying to drop positivity and fatigue into his expression and wave of his hand. It seems to get across, so he adds more to it, a nose-wrinkle and gesture to the sinkful of palettes waiting patiently to be cleaned. Louis rolls his eyes sympathetically, and Harry nods, pleased with his communication skills, and feeling a little like a trained monkey.

 

They slip back into a more separate silence then, and it’s comfortable, and companionable, aside from the itch in Harry’s skin urging him to stand closer. 

 

Harry’s fingers wrinkle and turn an angry red from the hot water, and when he drains the water there are streaks of paint drawing lines down to the hole. It’s an assault of muted colours, and it has him leering for his camera, tucked into his bag at the corner of the room. 

There’s a murmuring query from the back, and Harry glances over, adjusting the settings on his camera. Louis’ watching him with a puzzled sort of curiosity, looking from the camera in his hands to the dirty sink he’s aiming it towards. Harry can’t suppress a laugh, and gestures for Louis to wait.

He takes his shots, a few different angles, then walks back to Louis’ table. 

“See?” He prompts, tilting the camera screen down. Louis makes a sound, warm and appreciative, and he leans in. 

Harry’s body comes alive with a sheet of electric ripples as their bodies stand centimeters apart. It’s a buzz that turns into a shock when Louis’ hand comes up to rest over Harry’s, his thumb pressing down, selecting the next image. Harry lets it happen, watching Louis’ expression change minutely as he scans through the images. 

“Ceux-ci sont très bonnes,” Louis says quietly, flicking through Harry’s eclectic files of street signs and gasoline streaked hopscotch patterns. 

“All I got from that was ‘very good,’ so, thank you?” Harry tries, his smile widening when Louis looks up at him in confusion.

 _“Merci,”_ Harry adds pointedly. “May I?” He tugs the camera back away from Louis and lifts it, just shy of eye level, the lens pointing out. 

Louis responds with a modest smile, a shy duck, and the swoop of his fringe bats down to fall across his eyes. It’s soft, and bashful, and something hopeless swirls itself in Harry’s stomach. 

The shutter clicks closed and a light blush blooms across Louis’ cheekbones as he turns away. 

 

The faint colour is all Harry can think of for the rest of the day.

 

There’s a bulletin board outside the psychology office, and Harry skims over it in between checking his watch. The professor likes to talk, the student in ahead of him surely getting an earful, mind either expanding or short circuiting. 

He’s in for a wait, so he slips his headphones on, settling on a track and exhaling. 

 

It’s eclipsing, and turns waiting into patience with a blur of notes and intakes of breath.

 

A soft tap on his shoulder breaks the spell, and he turns to see Louis, hair soft and falling into his face, and he’s hit with a wave of desire to reach out and tuck it behind his ear.

He represses it, just barely, and Louis places a folded piece of paper in his hand. It takes him a moment to look away from the nervous smile, and drop his eyes down, fingers unfolding. 

Thin handwriting, and Harry blinks, feeling suddenly as if he’s been sucked into the undertow. He looks up in time to see Louis ducking out of the room. 

 

A quick tap of keys, a press of a button, and there’s a new song playing through his headphones, a sweet melody, a whispering lullaby of words he doesn’t understand. In turn, his stomach is lifting and swirling with a feeling just as foreign, but undeniable in its message. 

He stares off in the direction Louis has vanished into, and quietly absorbs the song, and what feels like the confirmation that comes with it.

To Harry it feels like the one last big breath before the long dive; the last surfacing. Something impossibly huge, swallowed up by something impossibly deep. Something too vast to think about.

 

 _This is it,_ Harry thinks, and then takes the plunge. 

 

 

 

Classes and coursework blur, coming alive in the pale colour of early morning as he sits away picking away at essay topics, and smears of ink along Harry’s forefinger from taking notes. 

He starts a page at the back of his photography notebook for jotting down song titles in between lapses of lecture. He tears them off one by one, carries them in his pocket until he passes a familiar face in the halls, or finds himself drawn back into the art room. 

It feels like too much enthusiasm when the back page of his notebook stretches down thirty lines, but with each song he folds to a square, there’s a reply waiting in Louis’ outstretched palm, and a quiet smile that reaches his eyes. 

 

Harry starts a playlist on his iPod of each one he receives. When it plays in the art room, Louis’ all smile, trying not to let it show when Harry comes in and catches his eye.

 

It’s an effort to align at first. But they keep running into each other, and it feels like too many small coincidences. 

Louis ends up pulling his schedule from his bag, and pushing it towards Harry, making a frustrated and questioning shrug. It takes a minute, but Harry gets it, and digs up his own calendar, and together they pick apart their routines, and when Harry’s classes end early and he can come sit in the back of the art room again. 

They manage to work something out, and Harry finds it’s the first time he’s found himself bored in his classes, watching the clock, foot tapping out a restless rhythm on the floor. 

 

It’s too easy to slip into the empty art room, and nestle in beside the back table. Harry spreads his textbooks out and picks away at his assignments, sharing the music, so often wordless. It should feel uncomfortable - strained, but there’s a strange comfort in the stretches of silence, and ecstatic bursts of snow flurries in his stomach when they break it, and stumble their way through sentences. 

 

Curiosity conquers him too, and Harry abandons his working for brief moments of coming to look over the skewed pieces of glass Louis doesn’t let him touch, and he tries to decipher some hidden picture. 

The collection of pieces reminds him of Magic Eye pictures, and he tracks down a book of them from the campus library, and signs it out to present to Louis one afternoon. 

Louis lights up at the sight of it, eagerly outstretching his hands for it, and Harry laughs at the childlike enthusiasm. 

They waste some time looking at it together, Louis’ feet dangling from his stool as Harry stands beside, leaning to the side like a draft horse. Snorting too, in frustration as Louis taps his fingers to the page, outlining shapes he can’t make out amid the blurs of pattern and colour. He gives up, sighing out a moody _'gah!'_ and storming off to return to his textbook while Louis laughs, high and bright and beautifully distracting. 

 

Harry still has an itching to touch each time he stops by to peer over Louis’ shoulder at his work in progress - a disguised itching to simply be close and share the same breaths.

So Louis grants him access to his unworked scrap pile, and Harry busies himself, pulling up a stool and making shapes and figures that look childish and unformed beside Louis.

They stay together in silence, broken by the laughs Louis muffles with his hand when Harry nudges him, proudly displaying his new pieces.

 

He makes a fish first, green fins and a purple body, and it earns him an eye roll.

His cat is so severely misshapen that he has to mime ears and _meow_ softly to explain it, and Louis’ high snap of a laugh startles them both.

He pulls a flower together, and as he’s placing shards as petals he looks over at where Louis' fingers are winding copper around edges. There's a definite moment of appreciation where Harry understands the effort put in, the detailing and delicacy, and when he looks back at his own creation, he has to laugh at the crude outline, the crass lumpiness. 

His laugh draws Louis' eyes over, and he shakes his head at the piece, wonky and stiff. But he's all smile when he reaches over, and pulls a large yellow piece from the pile, and places it gently over the flower. His eyes flick back to Harry, brows raising. _See?_ they're saying, and Harry isn't sure if he does. Louis hums, uses his fingers to wiggle invisible lines between the two shapes. 

"Le soleil," Louis whispers, like it's a confidential secret, and Harry laughs, a quick snort that has Louis laughing too. 

 

The sun watches them from the windows, and Harry's sure it's offended. 

It's the only explanation for how quickly it falls from the sky, and Harry's feet have to drag him from the room and off to class again.

 

Harry thinks he might go mad if he can’t get himself closer to something more than shared smiles in the back of a classroom. 

The decision to ask Louis on a date comes at two o’ clock in the morning, as he needles away at the conclusion of an English paper, his hands lit up by the glow of his laptop, and typing to the melody of a song without lyrics, all sorrowful string and accordion.

 

Harry does his research picking out a phrase, memorizes it with a concentration he usually reserves for camera settings. He repeats it through mundane tasks, mumbles it around his toothbrush, and taps his feet to the rhythm of it while he rides the bus, sings it in his head to the tune of the latest song Louis hands him. 

 

He drinks in the sunlight, imagining it misshapen and glinting through his veins, swallows it down like courage.

 

Of course, when he’s finally face to face with him in the quiet, it slips from his tongue, trickling down to pool around his toes, liquid cowardice and he covers it with a smile, and a piece of paper with a song title. Graciously accepted, and the gesture returned. Fervently returned, and Harry’s skin burns hot with the contact of their fingers, even as he reprimands himself internally. 

_I’ll do it tomorrow,_ he promises, and sets his jaw. The tension eases as piano and strings weave from the speakers, a singer gently swaying their shoulders as she sings:

 

_La da da da da da, la da da da da_

 

 _‘Tomorrow’_ comes on with a weight to it, a knot in Harry’s stomach made from warmth and the rock of a stern in uneasy waters.

He settles in at his newly claimed spot in the art room, and spreads out his coursework, their mismatched playlist coming through the speakers.

Harry’s mind refuses to focus on his page of revisions, caught instead on a mantra of _I’m going to do it, I’m going to ask him,_ a distraction burning holes through his stomach. 

 

There’s a soft gasp from Louis, and Harry’s eyes fly towards the sound, wavering sharply through their quiet soundtrack. 

“Are you okay?” Harry asks before he thinks of trying to translate, and Louis looks over at him, eyes large and brow creasing in pain.

“Je me suis coupé,” Louis says, left hand gripping the base of his right index finger. “À nouveau,” he adds, grimacing. 

“You, what?” Harry asks, standing up in concern. There’s blood beading from the side of Louis’ finger, and Harry’s by his side in an instant. 

“Shit, come here,” he says, steering his hands on Louis’ shoulders and pulling him towards the sink. He goes willingly, stumbling into Harry’s longer stride. 

Harry runs the tap cold, and pulls Louis’ hand down into the stream, holding him as gently as he can, mouth set it a tight line as he assess the damage. 

“Tout va bien,” Louis says quietly after a moment, but doesn’t withdraw his hand. “Ils sont tempermental.” He jerks his free hand back to motion at the glass spread across the tabletop. “Il est pas la première fois.” 

Harry pats his hand dry with paper towel, watching as red smears off and flowers out along the thinness of it. 

“Attends ici,” he says, firmness smoothing over the chop of the words in his mouth, and dashes out of the room. 

 

The infirmary feels miles too far, and he doesn’t spare the nurse a comment as he snatches a first aid kit from the shelves and runs back. 

He’s barely out of breath as he enters the room again, finding Louis standing beside the sink, a square of paper towel wrapped around his finger, the edges turning pink. 

Harry takes Louis’ hand back into his, fingers fast but posture careful, pressing a pad of gauze to the slice to stop the bleeding. Louis’ quiet, even through the sting of antiseptic, and lets Harry wrap his finger in a bandage without complaint.

 

It’s not a life threatening injury, Harry decides, and with this is at a loss of what to do next, so he raises Louis’ finger to his lips and presses a butterfly-winged kiss to the bandage. 

Louis’ shaky exhale brings his tongue to life in his mouth, and before he has time to think he’s parting his lips again.

“Allez-vous aller à une date avec moi?” 

Louis stares, jaw dropping slightly, and a flustered murmur attacks his wrists as he draws his hand out of Harry’s, and wrings them together.

“Vraiment?” He asks, voice so quiet Harry can barely catch it, and can’t understand even when he does. 

“Oui? Non?” He prompts instead, taking a half-step back to give Louis some space between their bodies.

“Bien sûr,” Louis breathes, _“oui,_ oui, je ne pense pas - ” he cuts himself off, pulls a face in concentration. 

“Did not think... you want,” he says after a moment, blinking up at Harry for confirmation, who blinks back.

“Well...I wasn’t sure you wanted,” he laughs. “I do, though. Je veux,” he adds, and Louis smiles wide enough that Harry can imagine a twin ache spreading across his own face. 

 

They plan it for the weekend, a late dinner at the nicest place Harry can afford on a student’s salary. 

Louis arrives just after Harry gets them seats near the back, wearing a thick cream coloured sweater, the sleeves too long and rolled up just past his wrists, and a delicate smirk Harry’s not sure he’s ever seen the likes of before. It speaks of hushed excitement covering nerves, and Harry feels underdressed in his grey open necked button down.

Harry does his best to decipher the menu, and their fingers brush as he translates, Louis bandaged and blushing in the dim lighting. 

They get asked for their ID’s when Louis orders them a bottle of wine, the curl of his words making it sounds decadent despite the price, and Harry feels overwhelmingly youthful and jubilant. 

After, stuffed and sated, they walk back to the campus dorms together, arms brushing in the cool night air, feet kicking up small stones that line the pavement. Harry thinks the streetlights narrating their walk don’t do the shine in Louis’ eyes justice. 

Crooked feet, and he falls fast.

 

 

He asks again a few days later, and Louis shushes him, beckoning instead for him to look at his work table, and the request dies on Harry’s lips.

The piece is completed, the skewed shards of glass gone from the table, and a smooth and shimmering sunset is shining up at them, tiny pieces shaping clouds and rays, impossibly detailed and captivating. 

Harry gapes, flounders for words in any language to capture the beauty of it, and comes up blank. His loss is praise enough, and Louis covers up modesty and bashfulness with an expertly timed eyebrow raise and sly smile. 

 

They go out again that night, turning their collars up against the breeze, and they make faces over a shared dessert. 

 

Harry invites Louis back to his cramped dorm room after, brushing off Louis’ coy and questioning hesitation with raised hands, and a badly pronounced _‘seulement un film, ca va?’_

 

In his room, Harry self consciously kicks a pile of clothes into his closet, watching as Louis takes in the scarce decorations - a series of polaroids strung up on his wall, a framed photograph and chubby potted cactus on the windowsill. 

He doesn’t know how to explain when Louis points at the wall of photos - doesn’t have the skill to voice how he likes to capture the essence of moments, preserve memories in snapshots of emotion, the clarity and power of an instance caught in time. He vows to find a way eventually.

 

They put a movie on Harry’s laptop and the dvd drive grinds to life, subtitles offensively yellow across the bottom of the screen, and halfway through the film Harry wraps an arm around Louis’ shoulder. He nestles in immediately, and a duet of sighs fill the small space.

 

Their following two dates end the same way, broken up by Harry sweating his way through his first tests, and Louis depositing a new load of glass pieces to the art room. 

When he has the time to sit and watch Louis work again, Harry forms him new shapes. This time a clumsy boat on purple waters, an antlered stag, a heart and arrow.

 

On their fifth date Harry accepts the feeling swirling through his stomach with each shared smile isn’t going away, and he stops trying to analyze if it’s mutual.

 

Louis turns down his invitation to come back to his room this time, instead pulling him by the arm in the direction of his own dorm, and Harry lets their hands slip together while they walk. It’s simple, monumental, and he’s not sure he’s remembered to breathe by the time they arrive outside Louis’ door.

 

Louis ushers him inside, and Harry’s struck by how private it feels, struck by the notion that he’s the only one who’s ever been invited in.

 

Inside the room it smells sweet, the warmth and spice of apples and cinnamon sunk deep into the walls. Candles decorate a small bedside table in various stages of melting, and the curtains are drawn, lit up a pale gold from the setting sun. 

Harry looks around, picking out the smiling faces tacked in photographs along the wall behind the single bed. He finds it’s tidier than he expected, so used to the disarray of the art room table. He supposes it’s because he hasn’t needed to bring many belongings, and pushes away the reasoning behind it.

 

It’s impossible to deny their closeness in the small space, and Harry feels pressed to say something, wishing he had words for the glow between their bodies. 

“C’est bien,” he says instead, gesturing to the candles, tracing his fingers through the air to emphasize. 

“Je me suis toujours une brûlure de bougie,” Louis replies, a quiet mutter to himself, brushing it off as Harry shrugs helplessly.

Louis pulls out his phone, and has to wrangle his words, load up some translation, and study it. Harry watches the crease of concentration light his brows. He feels trapped in the amber of the moment.

 

"Familiar," Louis finally says, but his voice doesn't seem sure, or satisfied. "Nostalgie?" He tries, and Harry drinks the word in. 

"Reminds you of home?" He asks, and Louis shakes his head, not a dismissal, but a lost gesture. 

"Here…" Harry leans closer, reaches for the phone and holds it between Louis' fingers. He types in a phrase, and fumbles over the words. "Vous rappelle de la maison?" His eyes are met with a solemn look from Louis, hidden by a breaking smile. Harry's terrible, he knows. He's gotten the feeling that Louis likes his efforts. 

"Oui," Louis says simply, and lets his body go lax against Harry's. From their angle, Harry slides Louis' phone back into the pocket of his jeans, and quietly puts his arms around him. 

Louis feels smaller than he seems, wrapped up in Harry's arms, and in the barely-there weight of him, Harry can feel something coming to the surface, stretching upwards for breath. 

It feels like loneliness. Homesickness. Something that trembles softly, but doesn't make a sound, and Harry holds him tighter until he can feel it fading. 

 

There’s a new display in the campus art gallery, and Louis drags him to the opening. 

His face is a myriad of expressions as they take their time looking at each piece, smooth transitions of delight and disgust as he points out each detail, urging Harry to _look,_ and batting at his arm in mock frustration when Harry can’t tear his eyes away from him to follow orders.

 

They stay until the gallery closes, herded out by campus security and drunk on their closeness, painted with brushstrokes of canary yellow, periwinkle and Mountbatten pink.

 

Louis’ hand is small and warm in his own, and Louis’ laughing, tugging, urgent to pull him along, out from where they’ve been, confined by walls. 

 

It’s cold outside - too cold to be anywhere but pressed up against one another, Louis’ back squirming against Harry’s chest, drawing closer with each heartbeat they share. 

 

It’s dark too, alongside the cold. The sky is swathed in deep velvets, purples and blues, eternity bruising together above their heads. 

And the stars have begun to blink on. Rhinestones decorating the stretch, silver tassels when they catch on eyelashes. 

 

But they’re in the city, and not much light manages to fall down to them amid the nearby streetlights. A hazy, pale grey filter is keeping them at bay, and only a few brave stars are present to witness their embrace. 

 

“Not too many stars out tonight,” Harry says, quiet against Louis’ temple. Connected, he can imagine he feels the confusion bleeding out of Louis’ skin and into his. 

“Not, what?” Louis tries, tilting his head, glancing up at Harry, who laughs, and points upwards.

“Un peu,” he tries, a sweeping gesture, blindly trying to include everything, the sky, the stars, the streetlights. “Stars, _stars!”_ He adds, when the look on Louis’ face becomes impossible not to smile at. 

“Stars?” Louis tries, the word forming delicately around his tongue. He points a finger, dots it to the sky, and Harry follows with his eyes, watching as he traces constellations. “Étoile,” Louis adds, and Harry repeats, butchering the word with his accent, and Louis’ laugh is brighter than starlight.

 

Louis stretches his arms up, mimes scooping the stars from the sky and trapping them into his hands, cradling them to his chest like a secret.

“Seulmont un peu,” he whispers to Harry, before slowly lifting his hands back up to the sky, and scattering the stars back across the heavens. 

 

As the nebulas reform themselves, Harry thinks he might be in love. 

 

He doesn’t have the words to say it properly, so he leans in and kisses Louis instead, letting the warm feeling in his chest speak for him, and spread through their lips. By the time they’re drawing apart, Harry’s sure the message got through. It’s written in Louis’ eyes, Majorelle, celeste, the barest sliver of viridian encircling pupils stretched wider than the night.

 

The air chills, and Harry has to add a hooded sweatshirt and leggings with insulation to his runs.

They catch each other’s colds, and it feels official.

 

They’re both too far from home for any introductions, but they manage. 

They bump shoulders squeezing into the frame of Harry’s laptop, smiles built from pixels aimed at Harry’s sister through a laggy Skype connection. She scoffs at Harry’s accent along with Louis as he tries to talk between them, and he only wishes his camera was good enough to showcase Louis’ blush. He wants to show him off. 

They hit it off, Louis shy and quiet at first, but drawn out of his shell by Gemma’s cool confidence and superior language skills, and soon Harry’s sitting back comfortably, contributing and running his palm up the smooth stretch of Louis’ back, proud and giddy. 

 

Louis walks his finger in a crooked line across his bedroom walls, pointing out faces and schooling Harry in French, whose head is running thick with _mère, grands-parents, beau-père, petit frère,_ entirely too many _petites sœurs._ He earns himself a playful smack on the arm when he says so.

“Les grandes familles sont merveilleux,” Louis tells him, voice stern and warm, and Harry smiles out at apology. 

“Je veux une grande famille un jour,” he adds, doing his best not to mangle the words, and the candlelight catches in Louis’ eyes.

 

Their movie nights begin to outnumber their nights out, and Harry’s bank account is grateful for it. They spend less and less time watching the screen, fingers yearning to etch their own commentary through the layers of their clothes, and the wordless dialogue keeps them warm.

 

Some tender lullaby is playing out on Harry’s laptop, and they draw away from a bottomless kiss to pretend to be following the story. The character has just gotten the girl, and they kiss too - juvenile and incomparable to theirs, Harry thinks.

On screen, they’re naked, clothes gone in a breath, and bodies entwining, music swelling. 

Louis closes the laptop, and the sound cuts off abruptly, jarring Harry’s bones and pulse.

Louis turns, looking up at him with flushed cheeks and wet lips, and Harry can’t deny him anything. 

 

They kiss again, and Harry’s heart is racing. Louis draws nearer, and beneath where his hand is placed on Louis’ back, he can feel the smaller boy’s pulse is racing too. 

_Matching,_ he thinks, deliriously, and instantly, desperately wants to find a way to show Louis what he means. 

 

He finds a way with his fingertips, tracing the veins in Louis’ arms with barely-there touches that gently raise hairs and quicken breathing.

 

Harry moves slow, keeps a breath of space between their bodies as he removes Louis’ clothes. With every turn of his wrists, and every slide of fabric across Louis’ skin, pauses, brining his eyes back up to his face, searching for a reaction, a response in blue eyes, anything that might suggest he’s crossed a line, done something wrong. 

There’s no such indication. 

 

Harry lets his fingers outline the skeleton hidden beneath sun-licked and trembling skin. Watching the way the pads of his fingers leave white trails in their wake, listening to the hitching of Louis' breath, thinking how it doesn't need translating.

 

The candle simmers, the flame flickers and dies, and they both miss the moment it goes still. 

 

 

The cold sets in as the winter months begin to roll together, and they don’t feel a single breath of it. 

 

 

The subtle changes of the seasons are deniable for a while, and Harry watches Louis’ fingers pull shapes out of pieces of glass to distract from the passage of time.

 

Time passes, regardless, and as winter exams draw near Louis finds a way to tell him, his words not quite fully formed things, somehow holding too much power for their size. An infant, mewling and fragile, receiving attention with a wail, waking a household, both helpless and commanding. 

 

 _“I’m leaving, Harry,”_ and the crush of words still isn’t enough to twinge something in Harry’s stomach at the soft twist to his name, the way it lifts and soars when Louis says it. 

 

“When - _quand?”_ Harry asks. His tongue has been caught in a stutter these past few months, repeating simple phrases. It feels like learning to walk, and tripping up with each step, almost falling, catching himself. 

 

“Mars,” Louis replies, a beat too late, and Harry can feel the thickness in his own throat there in Louis’ veins, choked and blocking up the vital passages. “Twenty.” 

 

“That’s the first day of spring.” It’s the only thing Harry can think to say. Possibly the only thing left to say.

 

There’s not enough time, Harry can see that, and the knowing brews blue and heavy in his lungs, blue and heavy like an ocean, like whale music, like the weight of a gaze lit and alive and trying to convey something tongues can’t pronounce. 

 

They don’t dwell on the time they don’t have. It’s said, accepted, and left. Instead, Harry makes a list in his head of things he can, and things he can’t, and makes sure to keep them even.

He can still braid his fingers into Louis’, confusing the nerves there into wondering which sensations belong to whom. He can’t see the future, nothing past the finality of the first day of spring.

He can watch the way their breath entwines, laughter spilling into the air. He can’t stand the thought of it vanishing. 

He can still feel the heat of the blush high up on Louis’ cheekbones. He can’t understand how the colour is a perfect match to his fingertips. 

 

 

It’s still cold when Louis leaves. 

It’s still winter in the air, it’s still winter in the trees, and Harry feels cheated. 

 

But the kiss Louis presses to his lips is warm, enough to melt the ice piling up in Harry’s gut. Louis stretches up on his toes, slides his hands against the heat of Harry’s neck, and they forget about the cold for a moment longer. Just a breath longer. 

 

 

 

The distance hurts. 

Harry can feel it, warm and dormant under his skin. Not the distance between their bodies - a handful of hours, as vast and meaningless as a handful of stars - but the distance between their lives. 

 

It stretches in the way Harry sits rigid in his classes again, feeling the weight of a voicemail, fat and pregnant on his phone.

 

It tugs in the sand clustered in the corners of his eyes when he wakes, too early, to listen to the grain of Louis’ voice, and growl his way through french words and mispronunciations.

 

And it uncurls at night, when time feels like it’s holding on for something, and there’s a low roar around them, in their separate beds, listening to the sound of breath through a speaker, precious and weightless. 

 

It grows, growing past the point of something feasible, turning into something too large for land, too big for breath, but still breathing, alive in Harry’s chest, alive inside his heart that feels bigger than it ought to, vessels the size of skulls, arteries wide enough for small hands to twist into shapes. 

 

Harry sleepwalks his way back into his life again, tries to adjust and make room for the friends he feels he may have neglected while the world hibernated. 

The distance still stretches though, an elastic band that ties itself to his words and his work, and as the date of finals creeps closer, elatement swells along with the academic dread. 

He passes, of course, and so suddenly finds himself free. 

 

He buys a train ticket, and with it the sense of something surfacing. 

 

Arrival and he’s greeted with a vibrant armful of boy, iridescent and trembling in the sunlight, and Harry’s heart is soft as candle wax, warm and pliable between Louis’ fingers. 

 

After their embrace, after their kiss and every kiss that follows, Louis drags him home, shows him first a houseful of recognizable smiles, and then privately, closed off in his room upstairs, a finished piece of stained glass.

 

It’s impossibly huge, the pieces it’s made up of impossibly small, all blues and purples, catching the light and singing softly. Constellations and galaxies written together, and beneath, a silhouetted figure, wrapped together, one thousand leagues under the stars.

**Author's Note:**

> https://www.tumblr.com/blog/neurtsy


End file.
